Haptic Blue
by Meredith-Grey
Summary: The idea that a teenage boy wouldn’t pay the slightest bit of attention to her was slightly wounding. Rory saw it as arguable proof that she was unappealing as a female, an inferior example of what girls where supposed to be. Season 3, slightly AU.
1. Pretty Vacant

**Title: **_Haptic Blue_

**Rating:** _Mature_

**Date Started:** _5-5-08_

**Date Finished: **_5-20-08_

**Disclaimer:** _I don't own Gilmore Girls. It all belongs to Amy Sherman-Palladino and the folks at the WB. Chapter title comes from a song by The Sex Pistols._

**Summary: **_The idea that a teenage boy wouldn't pay the slightest bit of attention to her was slightly wounding. Rory saw it as arguable proof that she was unappealing as a female, an inferior example of what girls where supposed to be._

**A/N: **_I intended for this to become a multi-chapter story, and I still do, but I've had this on my computer for some time and I haven't been able to update for a while, so I thought I'd share. There are no definite plans for this fic; it all depends on the response I receive. I haven't forgotten Pulse. It's actually the main source of my guilt these days. Enjoy._

**Chapter One: Pretty Vacant**

Rory tugged her fingers through her hair, smoothing down the few chestnut strands that hung around her face, neatening her ponytail. The bus ride from Chilton Preparatory to Stars Hollow was long and uneventful. A paperback novel was balanced on top of her knee, her navy tights worn thin and almost translucent due to daily use. Settling against the plastic bench-seat, Rory flipped open her copy of _Les Miserables_ to where she had left off and continued reading.

Her day had been strenuous, a basic test of time management. She'd had an oral presentation in French IV on castles in the Loire Valley, a cumulative test in AP Calculus, a research paper for her Sociology class, and a pop quiz on her summer reading list. She'd breezed through the questions on Oscar Wilde and Leo Tolstoy, pulling back the knowledge she'd absorbed in the humid, sticky months of summer.

She tugged on the sleeves of her pale blue oxford button down, feeling the damp cloth at her wrists while she left the bus and started her journey home. It was hot for early September, especially for Connecticut. Her saddle shoes felt heavy and cumbersome laced to her feet.

Oak trees lined her street, shading the sidewalks and neat bands of curbing. She was grateful for the change in temperature and the slight breeze that began to pick up as she neared her front lawn.

It had always been difficult for Rory to imagine the blue two-story on the corner of First and Chestnut as her home. Curling, violet wisteria had wrapped itself around the awnings and porch railings; it hung from the shudders around her window and the latticework next to the stairs. The parasitic flower had grown rapidly over the summer; Luke would have to trim it back before the onset of the cooler months.

The house was empty. Despite the fact that she had to sit through a thirty-minute bus ride, she usually made it home before Jess. Her mother, Lorelai, was most likely working at the Inn and wouldn't be back until half-past six. Rory dumped her backpack in her bedroom and retreated to the kitchen for a coke. Inevitably, her mother had left her a note on the refrigerator: _Working late tonight, be back by seven._

She crumpled the piece of paper in her pale fingers and tossed it in the trashcan. Moving to the cabinet to get herself a glass, Rory glanced out the kitchen window into her backyard.

Jess was home, she noted, very much at home. Her face stung with embarrassment along her cheeks and ears. Jess was with his current girlfriend, kissing on the back porch. Rory ditched her empty glass and grabbed her coke can, silently working her way upstairs.

It wasn't the first time she had accidentally stumbled across Jess and one of his girls. Every now and then she'd hear a stray giggle in the early hours of the morning, a sound that slipped between the aged boards of their restored home. Each time something of that nature occurred she was consumed with unquelled curiosity. Rory and Jess were the same age but there were distinct periods where she felt as if she were years behind her pseudo-relative.

When she was eleven her mother had married for the first time, ending years of prolonged loneliness. She had always felt partly responsible for her mother's situation; the thought reoccurred to her vehemently over the course of a decade that, if she had not been born, Lorelai's life would have been drastically different. She had spent the majority of her life with one parent, and, by extension, spoke infrequently with her biological father, Christopher. His presence in her life had been a continual question mark, a mark that had been gradually altered by the presence of Luke.

At twenty-seven her mother had married Luke Danes, a gruff but subliminally amiable man who had taken the time to build up a friendly rapport with her before making the segue into parenthood. It was difficult for her to imagine Girl Scouts and camping trips without Luke. They weren't terribly close, a fact that had become painfully obvious in her teenage years, but she didn't resent him for it.

A little over a year ago Luke's nephew had come to live with them. Jess had been sent somewhat unwillingly, a point that had been the cause of great internal query to Rory. She couldn't imagine being sent away by her parents, especially her own mother. In the first few months of Jess' residency they talked very little, if at all. It was unavoidably clear that they traveled in different circles, ran with different crowds. Rory spent a small fraction of her time trying to get to know Jess, they were both very solitary beings that were more prone to entertaining themselves than seeking company. After nearly a year of living in the same house they still maintained a distant politeness. She spent little thought on the matter. The way she interpreted it, if they weren't meant to be companions then there was no reason to force any sort of relationship.

It wasn't that she didn't like him, she had repeated that same statement to herself countless times, it was just that he was so unapproachably—she always searched for the word—aloof. He regarded her with a detached, almost uninterested laziness that, under normal circumstances, would have annoyed her endlessly. The idea that a teenage boy wouldn't pay the slightest bit of attention to her was slightly wounding. Rory saw it as arguable proof that she was unappealing as a female, an inferior example of what girls where supposed to be.

During the humid months of summer she would wander into their conjoining bathroom for a glass of water and hear faint sounds of activity. A small strip of light would shine underneath his door late into the evening. She would hold her breath and carefully press her ear to the hinges, pausing, straining to catch the almost inaudible scratch of his pen on paper. She liked to listen to him writing. It was a quiet secret that she kept for herself.

Whenever she was feeling particularly brave she would wander into his bedroom and poke through his bookshelf. Literature was one of the few subjects on which they held a common ground. Before checking the library or investing in a copy of something herself, Rory would comb through Jess' collection to see if it could be borrowed instead. In those snatches of time she would take inventory of his bedroom, spotting his cluttered desk and nightstand, his unorganized closet—door ajar—and his open window. The only neat area of Jess's room was his bookshelf, mainly due to Rory's frequent sampling of his collection.

It was where she'd gotten her current read, _Les Miserables_. She'd been surprised to find it crammed into the back corner of his bookshelf, stuck between a copy of _Siddhartha_ and _Cider House Rules_.

She heard a knock on her door, the elastic sound of knuckles on hard wood. Startled, Rory moved from her desk to turn the handle.

"Oh, hey."

Jess leaned with his elbow against the doorframe, casual, his stance depicting a boy completely at ease. "Hey yourself."

Rory crossed her bedroom and turned back to her books. She had French homework.

Seeing that silence was Rory's version of an invitation, Jess sprawled out on her neatly made bed, disturbing the hospital-definition corners and precise blanket placement. Rory tried not to wince.

"How's Victor suiting you today?" He rolled over on his stomach, arms crossed.

She tucked her hair behind her ears self-consciously. "It's a lot better than I thought. When I read _The Hunchback of Notre Dame_ I didn't like it all that much, but _Les Miserables_ . . ."

"Is infinitely superior?" Jess supplied.

"Definitely."

He nodded. Flipping on his side, Jess asked, "Were you talking to Dean Forester today?"

Rory was once again reminded of Jess's utter lack of segues. "Yeah."

She could see that he was suppressing a laugh. "Nice catch."

Her eyes were trained on her conjugation sheet. Rory made an inconsequential reply. "How's Stella?"

"Needy," Jess answered distastefully. He gave Rory a discrete once-over. "You're not thinking of going out with Dean, are you?"

"Why do you ask?" She leaned back in her desk chair and turned to face him, interested.

"Well, for one, he's not your type." Jess said easily.

"Pot and kettle."

"Excuse me?"

Rory gave Jess a shrewd look. "How can you lecture me about my 'type' while your—"

"While I'm what, Rory?"

"—With Stella Lemoke." She finished.

Jess shrugged. "There's a difference between trying and settling."

Rory pulled the inner volume of her bottom lip between her teeth, her eyelids lowering.

A pregnant silence followed. Jess could see a frown etched on Rory's delicate, girl-doll features. Her cheeks looked like they'd been covered with soft fabric.

She returned to her assignment. When she looked back up at the clock it read five-fifteen, shadows growing longer outside her window and on her pale green walls. Jess had quietly excused himself while she studied.

--

Dean Forester picked her up on Friday evening. Brief introductions were made between Dean and her mother, a situation in which Rory had threatened tear gas and waterboarding if Lorelai were to purposefully embarrass her. He had borrowed his dad's car, a 98 Honda Accord, and driven them out to Hartford for dinner and a movie.

She rarely went on dates, a stark contrast to Jess who almost always had some sort of relationship going, even if it was only a mere flirtation. Rory knew that his interactions with the opposite sex weren't nearly as chaste and coy as her own. However, she didn't see Jess in a negative light because of it. By teenage standards, he was normal. She was the freak.

Dean held her hand and bought her movie ticket for her. He opened doors and made polite conversation, all of it as a means of flattery. She couldn't tell if he was doing it because he liked her or because he treated all girls that way. Rory decided not to think about it too deeply.

The brief heat wave that had lasted the duration of the week had dissipated into a chilly, autumn evening. Dean walked her to her front door and kissed her sloppily. She bent her neck back and held still while his fine, brown hair hung in her face. He held her hands and pulled away slowly, the palpable scent of laundry detergent and Dove soap strung between them like prom-night crepe paper. Rory tried not to show signs of protest or eagerness. She wasn't sure what actions would offend the delicate ego of a seventeen-year-old boy, so she kept quiet and let Dean kiss her again, shorter this time.

"I'll call you."

She turned and unlocked the door; talking from the threshold, "See you later"

--

Rory turned abruptly at the sight of a pair of legs climbing out of her window and onto the gently sloping roof. It was late and chilly and the leaves on her favorite oak trees had just begun to turn slightly golden-orange in some places. It was her custom to sit on the roof just outside her bedroom window when she wanted to think or to simply be alone. Rory pulled her down blanket around her more securely. She wore nothing save a thin, cotton nightgown and her under-things.

The rest of the figure joined her. "Jess," she said, relieved. Rory had feared that her mother or Luke had discovered her hiding spot.

"Hey."

Jess was, unlike her, fully clothed. She had forgone shoes whereas Jess still wore his. The night air was cool and thick enough for her to get a good look at him without being completely obvious.

He caught the sight of her bare legs peaking out from beneath her blanket. They were so pale they almost appeared blue. He sat slightly closer to her. "How was Ken Doll this evening?"

Rory didn't take offense to Jess's wording; she knew he didn't mean much by it. "Needy," she said tiredly, mocking him.

"Aw," he said sarcastically. "That's just too bad."

She shrugged. "It was just one date."

"Yeah," Jess fiddled with something deep in his pant pocket. "But one date with Dean Forester is basically like allowing yourself to be pissed on repeatedly by a dog marking it's territory. I hope you aren't too wet."

The words he spoke were meant to be delivered in a cynical, condescending tone. But Jess put little emphasis on the things he said. Emphasis wasn't required. The fact that he was saying them held emphasis enough.

Rory tried not to laugh. She shook her head. "Jess," she chuckled. "You shouldn't judge people you don't really know."

"Who says I don't know Dean?" He said lightly, with a faint trace of a smile.

"Forget it," Rory pulled her knees against her chest, shying away.

He stretched out on his back, arms folded behind his head. "You don't date much."

"Excuse me?" She asked.

Jess shrugged. "Nothing. Just, you don't go on a lot of dates. That's all."

"Oh."

He sat up again. "Not that that's a bad thing," Jess elaborated. "It's just something I noticed about you."

She didn't say anything. Their shared silence was compatible, unlike the awkward pauses she'd suffered through with Dean earlier that evening.

Rory turned and looked over at Jess, who was busy fumbling with something, the contents of his pocket, she assumed.

"What are you doing?"

He held up a cylindrical configuration of herbs and paper. "Share with me?"

Upon first inspection Rory thought he held one of his hand-rolled cigarettes that he was prone to carrying in his smooth, silver case. But the paper was a different color and they held a different smell. Rory knew little about drugs or the interworkings of their consumption, but it was quickly apparent to her that Jess was not smoking tobacco.

"_Oh_," she watched Jess light the end with his Zippo. "I've never . . . "

He offered it to her. "It's not hard. Inhale and hold it in. Nothing to it."

She took the lighted joint from his pale fingers. "Alright then."

--

She had spread the blanket out on the rough shingles, her slightly exposed back pressed against the soft down. Jess lay beside her, their bodies detached.

"Jess?"

"Hmm?"

"Why'd you . .?" She lost the tail end of her sentence.

"Get you high?" He said.

Rory nodded. "Yeah."

"Because you looked completely miserable. Plus, I'm a good sharer."

She giggled at that. "Sharer," Rory mocked.

He'd thrown his denim jacket over her legs earlier because she'd complained about the chill. Being slightly taller than Rory, Jess peaked over her shoulder a little, looking down the soft expanse of her neckline. Her young breasts were full and natural against the thin, white cotton. The cool air had caused her nipples to harden, a sight that was easily visible to Jess. He felt a pang of lust creep into him. She was all dark hair and blue eyes and milky skin, and he felt nothing but sickness over it.

--

**A/N:** _I'm trying out a slightly different characterization than my norm. Tell me what you think :D_


	2. The Fate of the Human Carbine

AN: I had almost forgotten about this story until **anettbianka** made a little request to read chapter two. I know it's been forever; I'd suggest rereading the first chapter if this one seems iffy.

Disclaimer: I do not own Gilmore Girls, all the rights belong to Amy Sherman-Paladino; I do not own the chapter title, it belongs to the artist Cat Power.

**Chapter Two: The Fate of the Human Carbine**

Rory locked the door behind her on her way inside, turning the deadbolt and shrugging off her jacket. It was her second date with Dean in the past week. They'd gone to his place for dinner and then he'd taken her out for ice cream. He had walked her home, all seven blocks, and kissed her goodnight. She still wondered if it was Dean who didn't know how to kiss or her.

The porch light had been left on, a fact that had interfered with her concentration during the kiss; any of her neighbors could look out their dining room window and see Rory Gilmore fumbling on the front porch with her boyfriend. She tried to keep it brief, pecking him on the cheek and promising to meet up the next day for coffee.

She could see the blue glow of the television from her place in the hallway. Rory was almost certain that her mom and Luke both had to work, seeing as it was a Wednesday, so she wandered into the living room to investigate.

Jess was lying sideways on the floor with the remote less than an arms length away. His close and only friend, Lex, sat on the couch with her jacket thrown over the arm. Over the pitch of the crackly audio system she could hear them talking. An old rendition of _A Clockwork Orange _fumbled through the speakers, the sound quality less than stellar due to age. Rory didn't find their movie choice unusual; she'd seen Jess' worn copy of the book, margins filled and pages dog-eared. It was the type of novel that he would be drawn to, Rory evaluated, Jess loved anything about corrupt governments, and sixties literature.

Lex was braiding her honey-colored hair thoughtfully while watching the film. "This book is unreadable," she nodded her head to the copy she had apparently borrowed. "At least part one."

Jess, it seemed, was tired. He yawned. "Burgess practically invented a new language for the book. Read it a few more times."

"I could barely get through it the first time. Although, I might use it for my book report. I have a feeling that Mrs. Landon will be easily impressed."

Jess snorted. "That woman wouldn't know good literature if it spit in her face."

"Are you calling yourself good literature, Jess?" Lex kidded.

Rory interjected their conversation by broaching a question. "Hey Jess," he rolled over and greeted her. "Do you know when the other half of the family unit will be back?"

"Lorelai will probably waltz in just after nine. Apparently she's got a group of Chinese businessmen to attend to."

"Right," Rory toyed with the hem of her sleeve. She turned from Jess and Lex to make the long trek upstairs.

It was at that moment, with her pale hand on the railing and the German sequence pictures spaced evenly along the wall of the staircase, when she felt indescribably, enormously lonely. The house was old and creaking, the boards in the stairs gave slightly under her feet but not enough to cause alarm. Luke had adopted a phrase for the aging carpentry when he had started the renovations, a term that he'd picked up as a kid working in his father's hardware store: singing boards. Rory traced the off-white chair railing that had been added sometime in the twenties, the color had been duplicated and painted over only a few years before. She kept her ears off the conversation Jess and Lex were having downstairs.

She was exhausted. Tired and slightly achy, Rory wanted to crawl into bed and pull the quilt past her thin shoulders. But she needed a bath, a long one. It had always been her policy to at least shower before bed.

The bathroom that she shared with Jess could only be reached through their separate bedrooms. She flicked the light switch on and started up the hot water in the shower, taking her time to undress so the water would grow gradually warmer. She kicked her sneakers off by the door and pulled her sweater over her head, leaving it in the hamper along with her jeans and socks.

She looked at herself in the bathroom mirror, tugging a little at her blue cotton underwear and matching bra. When she turned sixteen her mother had bought her lots of matching sets such as the one she wore. Rory knew that it always looked better to be prepared, to wear the right kind of thing when a boy saw what was underneath her clothes. She'd had the underwear for a year and never found a valid reason to use it.

Rory reached behind her back and undid the clasp there, removing her bra while the shower ran in the background. She examined her breasts in the mirror, her vision clouded slightly by the condensation that had begun to gather on its glassy, reflective surface.

It wasn't that she didn't have them, she chided, they simply weren't what she'd imagined them to be. Women in films and photographs had always appeared soft and natural, like they didn't posses the kind of bones and organs that all humans did. She poked at the few ribs she could see in her abdomen, running her hand across her stomach and removing her panties, pulling them past her thighs to gather on the tile floor in a little pile.

_If Jess saw me without my clothes,_ she wondered, stepping into the shower and letting the water soak into her hair, _would he want me?_

--

"Oh jeez," Lex said gruesomely. "That's . . . not cool."

Jess was fairly immune to violence in movies. He gave her a funny look. "What, it's not like it's real or anything."

"Wasn't this banned in the UK?"

He rolled his eyes, "Yeah, like thirty years ago."

Lex sneakily reached for the remote, "Lets do something else."

Jess obliged and moved to turn on the living room light. It wasn't all that late. They still had close to an hour before Lorelai or Luke would be home.

Lex stretched and adjusted her skirt. "Sorry for being such a girl," she said cheekily.

His smirk was hidden while he put the move things away. "S'okay. I doubt I'd like you as much if you weren't." He joked.

"That's right, because you're undiscriminating in your enjoyment of female company."

"Not true," he fired back.

Lex worked to braid the other side of her hair. "Yes, you have an exception."

Jess sat down next to his friend, suddenly curious. "Who would you say is my exception?"

She finished up and looked her friend in the eye. "Rory Gilmore," she answered.

Jess remained indifferent.

Lex went on to explain. "Do you ever actually talk to her? She's a pretty girl. I just find it kind of surprising that you two haven't . . . "

"What?" he asked.

"Well, I don't know, Jess," Lex tried to play innocent. "You live in the same house, your bedrooms are right next to each other." She had to stop herself from laughing. "It just seems strange that you haven't done anything."

Jess regarded her purposefully. "You mean, as a matter of convenience."

Lex shrugged. "Forget what I just said. I'm only making fun. I mean, seriously, that girl is perfectly sexless, but it doesn't make sense, not to me anyway."

He attempted to keep his tone neutral. "Maybe she doesn't feel like chasing after guys the way you do," he gave her a playful look.

She glanced down at her watch. "Well, look at the time. I should really get going," she said sarcastically.

"Why? It's eight-fifteen."

"Maybe my mom's making apple pie or something."

"You don't live with your mother," Jess pointed out.

Lex made a flippant gesture with her caramel colored hand while she grabbed her coat. "Maybe my father-figure is making apple pie or something."

She was a strange girl, Jess concluded. Lex let herself out while humming Beethoven's Ninth Symphony, a tune he recognized from the film.

He sighed at the sound of the door closing. "Yeah," he said, "or something."

--

Fall set in quickly after the hot spell in September. Rory was grateful for its arrival; she was eager to descend more deeply into the school year and closer to the holidays. Halloween came and went, bringing parties and the death of one of her classmates at Chilton due to a bit of reckless driving. Unlike her fellow seventeen-year-olds, Rory spent the evening at her boyfriend's house watching scary movies and eating candy-corn.

However chastely her relationship with Dean had started, she was beginning to notice a change.

It wasn't obvious at first. They still kept up the handholding and the methodically planed dates and the thoughtful gestures and phone calls that had become a staple of their relationship, but Rory knew that Dean was getting a little restless. They had been together for around a month and they hadn't moved passed the kissing stage. During any other time period in history their interactions would have been seen as fairly appropriate, perhaps even a little scandalous. However, Rory was a smart girl, and she understood that if she wanted to keep Dean interested in her at all she would have to change something.

Needless to say, it was the first time she actually considered using the underwear sets her mother had bough for her.

Her theories about sex and teenagers were further enforced when she accidentally walked in on Jess with Amelia Huxley. She was only trying to return a book that he'd let her borrow, a recently bought copy of _Between the Bridge and the River_, but she hadn't thought to knock. She blushed a fierce shade of crimson, squeaking out "I'm so sorry" while tossing his book in a chair by the door while Amelia tried to cover her bare chest.

Jess had calmly talked to her a few hours later, explaining that it didn't bother him and that she shouldn't be embarrassed, it was an honest accident. She picked up on his sincerity but it didn't lessen the awkwardness that she felt separating them. Rory hadn't been able to look him in the eye for over a week.

In a way she supposed that was better for the both of them. Jess didn't seem to mind Rory's newly implanted evasion; he made no remark on her closed-lipped policy of minimal contact. She assumed that it would be better for both parties if she decidedly slipped into the background.

--

Her vision was blurry, her eyes stung with tears while she thumped up the stairs and into her bedroom.

It was just past seven o'clock, the frozen air still clinging to her skin was cold and frostbitten from the November chill. Tears slid down Rory's wind-chapped skin while she shut the door to her bedroom roughly, uncaring about the loud, reverberating sound that it made.

She threw her coat on the floor—like shedding a ragged layer of skin—and kicked off her saddle shoes in the process. She was still in her Chilton uniform, the pastel blue button down and plain ensemble. Her hands were cold and almost raw from the fierce wind; she had walked all the way home from Dean's house by herself.

Rory had made up her bed that morning before she went to school. Her quilt was smooth and clean, the folds and creases in the sheets lain with military precision. She sank down on the mattress, a loathsome visitor in the sickbed of her former self.

Fidgeting, she rose quickly and went into the bathroom to pursue her toothbrush and some mouthwash. The Listerine was harsh and it burned her tongue a little but she ignored it, sterilizing her mouth multiple times. When she was finished she screwed the cap back on and left it on the counter, the lone product on her side of the double-sink.

During the course of her walk Rory had taken time to think, to analyze. The frigid air had cooled any lingering vestige of the chagrin she'd experienced a few moments prior. The silence had created the perfect atmosphere for negative internal dialogue.

_Suck it up_, an internal pun, how cheeky, she'd responded, _why else would he be interested in you?_

_I am Esther Greenwood_, Rory had thought, _here I stand, summoning my little chorus of voices._

It had started out as another matter entirely. They had been watching a movie in his bedroom, kissing, an almost routine activity. Rory didn't particularly enjoy it but she knew that kissing was what couples did, so she let Dean touch her hair and her face, pulling away every so often so they could surface for air.

He'd kissed the spot between her cheek and jaw-line; which, she thought, felt better than when he kissed her on the mouth. It was an expanse that Dean rarely ventured into.

She knew what was happening when he guided her hand below his belt buckle.

Her first reaction was nervousness, fear. She began to feel slightly sick but she thought that it wasn't the time or place to voice such matters.

In a twisted, roundabout way, she wanted to prove to herself that, yes, she could do all the things that normal girls did. Rory tried to hold onto that thought, but it was difficult. When she remembered the incident while walking home she recalled few details. Her mind had already begun to erase what had happened but she couldn't get the bitter taste of Dean completely out of her mouth.

Rory pressed her cheek against her pillow, squishing it in her arms. In her head she imagined the disapproving glances emanating from her furniture. The verbose rationalization she'd receive from her dresser, the silver-lining cliché she'd stomach from her pink deer lamp, the harsh yet informative response from her full-length mirror—

"Rory."

She looked up at the sound of her name.

Jess stood in the doorway between her bedroom and the bathroom. She tried to hide her face but sat up when he moved to join her on the bed.

"Hey," Jess touched one of her softly curving shoulders, brushing her hair aside. "What's wrong? Are you hurt, do I need to get you something?"

"No," she answered. She allowed his hand to remain on her shoulder. She was upset but a small part of her eagerly leaned into his touch. "I . . . I just," she took a deep breath and tried to calm herself, shrugging off some of her hysteria. "I could have said no and I didn't because I'm stupid and I want . . . " Rory broke off, tucking her hair behind her ear self-consciously.

"You're not stupid," Jess said, blunt like an unsharpened razor. "Trust me, I would have noticed by now if you were."

She made a noise halfway between a sob and giggle.

"Rory," he touched her cheek, trying to get her to look him in the eye. "What did you do?"

She sniffled. "I don't, I'm not, please don't judge me." Rory looked up at Jess. "Promise that you won't think of me as some silly girl that does whatever she's told, I _do_ have a mind of my own—"

"I'm sure it's a very nice mind," Jess tried to joke.

"You're funny," she said miserably. Their legs were touching. He had his arm around her and a frantic voice in her mind was instructing her _not to ruin this._

"Can we just . . . " she looked down, her face slightly hot. She hoped that he'd think it was just from the crying.

"What?" Jess said. He was looking at her, his expressive brown eyes trained on her face; she had his attention but she was unsure of what to do with it.

Rory leaned towards him and tilted her head, touching her lips to his. She was a little unsure of what to do with her hands so she kept them in her lap, her palms burning. Jess quickly took control of what she only knew how to initiate. He held her face with his hands, his fingers cupping her jaw while he gently parted her lips. She gave a small moan when he took her lower lip between his teeth.

It had started out as another matter entirely.

She felt herself being slowly lowered, her skin feeling increasingly warmer the longer he touched her, Jess' arms around her waist, the crush of her chestnut curls against the now rumpled linen. Jess kissed her sveltely neck, causing her to suck in a breath of air. "Rory," he said against her skin, moving up so he could kiss her mouth.

The prevalent weight of his abdomen above her jarred her senses, causing her eyelids to flutter open She was breathing heavily. Jess slowed his movements, stroking her cheek, afraid that he would somehow hurt her. "I, we . . . Rory, we shouldn't be doing this."

It didn't escape her that he said _shouldn't_ instead of _can't_.

She had never gone very far with anyone before, let alone Jess, who she had unconsciously been attracted to since their first meeting. Rory had no idea how to ask for what she wanted; swallowing, she turned away, her eyes prickling. She was terrified of what it would mean if he rejected her now, like this.

"I'm sorry," Rory said, disconnecting herself and casting his presence aside.


End file.
